


The Admirer

by MelfinaLupin



Category: Peter Capaldi - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Georgian Period, Historical Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelfinaLupin/pseuds/MelfinaLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed by an unkind earl, Phoebe Greene is determined to remain a spinster at the age of twenty-eight until a secret admirer comes into play. Could it be the Earl of Malcolm trying to ruin Phoebe's life once more? A Georgian romance about misunderstandings, lost love, and a malicious rivalry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Admirer

 

No. 24 Green Street was the respectable London residence of Lord Cartwright except when the doors opened to receive the lesser members of his extensive kinfolk. Though the aging baron loved his only daughter, he could not fathom how she withstood the company of her cousin. As young girls they had been inseparable, near in age and according fairness, but while Celia became the wife to the reputable Sir Childs, her confident, Phoebe, had not the pleasure of such an arrangement. Twelve years was not enough time for Lord Cartwright to forget the gossip sparked the night of his niece’s debut. Hence by the age of eight and twenty Phoebe, her reputation irredeemably blackened, acquired the unfortunate title of spinster and was regarded a blight upon the family.

Dinner started fashionably at five that evening and Lord Cartwright regarded the youngest ladies in attendance with unhappiness rumpling his graying brows. Phoebe and Celia conversed amiably together over their bowls of white soup, oblivious to the chilly airs pervading about the candlelit dining hall. It seemed the dinner party had yet to forgive Miss Greene’s past iniquity as well and were resolved to keep a polite distance from the interloper. He sighed and covertly checked the time with his silver pocket watch.  The evening ahead promised to be a dreadfully tedious one, but there was nothing that could be done. His niece and her dreadful reputation were his burden to bear until Sir Childs arrived in London after a finishing a promising hunting excursion to collect the women. A rebuking rap upon his knuckles from his wife’s ivory fan curbed his self-pity, and Lord Cartwright stowed his watch with an apologetic smile towards his wife.

No one had the opinion that Miss Greene was an ugly woman. Though she was a good head shorter than most women, her beauty atoned for that inadequacy. She possessed large, deep brown eyes, a pert little nose, and had a head full of luscious chocolate curls that were often left unpowdered to the chagrin of the more fashionable members of society. Her nature however was not an enviable one. Her pink lips were often ensnarled by a laughing smirk that was most certainly unbecoming of a lady of her breeding. She talked too loud and voiced her opinions too often. She did not care a fig for propriety, and walked about without a chaperone one more than one occasion. Lord Cartwright would just as lief blame her odd behavior on her upbringing for her parents were an indulgent pair who bequeathed their only daughter wealth and status so that she was spared the heavy pressure of marriage.

He knew his kind-hearted sister worried for Phoebe’s future, her child’s status as an old maid was not something to fret much about. As long as Phoebe was happy, and she was surprisingly, then nothing else mattered. Lord Cartwright did not share his sister’s sentiments when it came to his niece. The sooner she left his home the better it would be for his health.

“I confess, Celia, my feet still ache from dancing last night,” Phoebe complained as the two entered the drawing room after dinner. They walked arm-in-arm after the polite throng of older ladies. Smiling brought out the cheery dimples in her soft cheeks. Celia couldn’t understand how such a fine woman had made it to such a lonely age without a single offer of marriage. It was a travesty!

“Mine too,” the other admitted with a tired sigh. “We made such a spectacle of ourselves, but I cannot recall when I had so much fun!” The eldest of the pairing, Celia bore the same coloring as her cousin, but was far taller and considered to be the epitome of beauty by many. Laced into a new green and gold robe à la Française and a demure cashmere shawl, she was an enchanting sight to behold.  “I was quite surprised you knew all the proper steps. You didn’t step on my toes even once.”

“My naughty brothers spent hours teaching my all the wrong steps when I was younger. They thought it would be a lark to teach me only the steps of the gentlemen, and I was such a goose to believe them,” Phoebe said with a chuckle. “My dear mama and dance instructor were naturally both quite appalled.”

Celia laughed behind the screen of her fan. She was well aware of their mischievous nature and had often been the center of juvenile pranks. “What silly creatures they were as boys.”

Indignation burned in Phoebe’s eyes. “They still are! Don’t allow them to fool you.”

The flickering lights of the candelabras and the golden chandelier shimmered upon the layers of iridescent silk taffeta and brocade the women donned for the evening gathering, and revealed laboriously powdered and curled coifs and painted faces. These women represented the very best of the Beau Monde. The stuffy atmosphere dissolved into a more lenient one as the genteel lady folk mingled without the company of their husbands. Some prattled about the forthcoming gala at the Vauxhall Gardens, while others gathered around the mahogany card tables to begin games of whist or piquet as liveried servants emerged with trays laden with goblets of sweet wine.

Celia, unnoticed by all, escorted Phoebe away from the happy congregation and into to an unoccupied corner. They sat upon the velveteen settee, half hidden behind a partition, where immediately Celia rounded upon her cousin. “I’ve something wonderful to tell you, my dear,” she whispered least she was overheard. Phoebe’s attention was undeniably caught. “Oh, pray, be a good girl and speak,” she begged. “You know how much I enjoy a good surprise.”

A pleased smile pulled at Celia’s lips as she leaned forward to reveal her secret. “You’ve an admirer.”

The rousing declaration marred Phoebe’s face with confusion, not jubilation. Her dark brow pinched together as her lips moved to speak but for once her intellect absconded. “An admire? At my age?” she sputtered helplessly. Celia nodded, helplessly excited over the unanticipated turn of events. Phoebe’s eyes flashed; her wit was back with a vengeance. “Oh, stuff! I’m not fooled one bit by you, Celia, you naughty girl.”

“Never would I tell you a lie, dear Phoebe. When I came down for breakfast this morning I happened upon a this.” She retrieved her purse and pulled out a thin square box and a letter which she handed to her dubious cousin.

Phoebe took the gift numbly. She didn’t have the courage to open it, or even believe what her cousin told her. She had never received a gift from a gentleman before and truthfully never indulged in such a silly daydream.

“Will you read the letter?” Celia encouraged.

She dreaded what she would find written within the letter, but she broke the wax seal and unfolded the fine parchment. “ _’My dearest Miss Greene_ ,” she read quietly, “‘ _I believe there is much we have to discuss. If you wish to please wear this necklace clasped about your neck at the Vauxhall Gardens this Saturday so that I know I may approach you. However if you wish me to remain an unknown admirer, do not wear it. However you may choose, please accept this necklace as a token of my affection for you._ ’”

“My goodness gracious,” Celia sighed, her eyes dewy with sentiment.

Phoebe opened the box with steely sensibility but was nevertheless amazed by the string of the flawless pearls within. Nestled neatly in the middle on the necklace lay a diamond the size of which Phoebe had never seen. This was no pauper’s token of affection. She was excessively carefully as she removed the necklace from its cushioned bed. She stood up and turned toward the mirror, observing how becomingly the necklace clung so that the diamond rested comfortably in the niche of her neck as tempting as a forbidden fruit.

“Oh, Phoebe, you look spectacular.”

“This is too great a gift,” she attested. There was no man alive who would ever offer her such a priceless piece of jewelry. She lowered the necklace, and reclaimed her composure. Her trembling heart and burning checks were the markings of a naive chit, not an established old maid. It was obvious her brothers’ making mischief once more.

“Do you wish to know who it was from?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes and feigned a look of aggrieved displeasure. “If you must, go ahead and reveal the name of my would-be paramour. My only requirement is that you conjure a man of good standing for if you utter the name Percival Ashley I swear I will not talk to you the rest of the night.”

Mr. Ashley was a foolish little macaroni who had been in attendance the night before. Phoebe remembered his lofty wig with its innumerable ribbons and curls and his pink velvet suit trimmed in gold with a frown. The little man was the embodiment of foolishness and the only man who dared to ask Phoebe for her hand in a dance. She had feigned lightheadedness to save herself from the obligation.

“I swear it was not Mr. Ashley,” Celia explained with a chuckle. “Rather it was the Earl of Malcolm whose attention you held captive last night.”

“The Earl of Malcolm?” Phoebe wasn’t inclined to feign a spell now. Her face grew dreadfully ashen as her confident façade slipped. Celia nodded blissfully, waiting for her cousin to respond with the appropriate amount of delight.

If there was another man whom she wished hadn’t sent the gift it would be the disagreeable Earl of Malcolm. He has never chosen for himself a wife, and despite his age was still considered to be an eligible match by a multitude of anxious mamas and starry-eyed young ladies each Season. Even the patronesses craved his attention but his attendance at events was haphazard and seemingly involuntary for when he did appear it was often with a sour scowl. His pride did not dissuade the masses. Women swooned over his immense wealth and men coveted his rank. “Surely you jest! This is quite the rudest joke, Celia.”

Celia, oblivious to her cousin’s past transgressions, proclaimed her innocence and attested that Phoebe had been the solitary recipient of the earl’s attention.

Phoebe was out of sorts. She could only remember that balmy spring night twelve years ago where she, a shy but lovesick girl, had the pluck to propose marriage to the handsome, blue-eyed Earl of Malcolm. He had been excessively kind and declined her proposition so gently that she was sparred any embarrassment over her indelicacy, but by morning her deed was made public knowledge. Her only thought was that the noble who had promised to keep her proposal a secret had broken his word in order to take a silly child down a peg. It was a cruel thing to do, and no doubt his handsome exterior hide a mean spirit. He had turned her into an outcast overnight.

Buried memories and old hatred churned in Phoebe’s mind, but she schooled her features so show nothing but the mildest of interest. “Oh,” she breathed softly, fearful to say much more than that.“The Earl of Malcolm. How extraordinary.”

“Indeed!

“Celia, are you positive this came from the earl? The letter wasn’t signed at all, and the seal was unrecognizable to me.”

“The box and letter were in the hallway with the calling cards. So I suppose any man could have left it for you,” Celia admitted softly. Her excitement began to grow fainter as her cousin began to dissect what Celia thought to be the most romantic event to behold. “But I’m positive it was him.”

“What makes you so adamant about that?”

“He was watching you all last night, cousin. Did you not notice?”

Phoebe’s checks turned a fiery hue. She shoved both box and the letter aside and scowled. “Of course not. I was never made aware of his presence until now!”

Celia heard the bitter displeasure in Phoebe’s voice and soon began to second guess what she had seen the night before. “Perhaps you are right. Maybe this is from another gentleman,” she conceded without much conviction. “The Earl is nearly as old as your father after all, and never once has he ever expressed any sort of marriage plans. In fact I think he is content to be a bachelor until the end of his days.”

Reassured that the present was not from the old earl, Phoebe began to entertain very carefully who would be besotted enough to send her such a pretty trinket.

“Will you wear it Saturday?”

“Oh, without a doubt, my dear cousin,” Phoebe replied with a sweet smile. “I must meet my one and only admirer.” If the man turned out to be the malicious Earl, ready and waiting to make her the laughingstock of the season again, then Phoebe would not scruple to exact revenge.


End file.
